


Corsets, Quests, and Happily Ever Afters

by DPS



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bubble Bath, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Femlock, Genderswap, John is called John, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sex, Rating will go up, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being a Drama Queen, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Slow Burn, Virgin Sherlock, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-15 17:02:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13617765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPS/pseuds/DPS
Summary: Sherlock, a bored, chaotic princess, has been locked away from the world for her entire life.  John, an elusive and well sought after soldier is called to an audience with King Mycroft to go on a quest. Instead, John becomes invaluable to the royal family and helps her kingdom at the same time. John and Sherlock are breaking down the patriarchy while wearing heels and brandishing swords.A bodice-ripper meets feminist ideals. Fem!lock





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock’s fingers gripped at her ornate dressing table, glaring hatefully into the mahogany as if it had caused all the ills in the world, while her nauseatingly cheerful maid pressed, cinched, and practically  _carved_  her into her steel-boned trap.

Or corset. It’s all semantics.

“Molly, I simply must-“ Sherlock cut off with a wheezing gasp as the final metal thatch was secured and the laces were tied as tightly as her maid could muster. Sherlock took a deep breath (or as deep as she could manage) and met her own gaze in the mirror, trying to ignore Molly’s platitudes and “oh, shush now” by looking at her- uncommon- appearance.

She looked…. Well, womanly. The corset emphasized her minuscule, pale breasts, creating a decent amount of décolletage and emphasizing her small waist. With her ebony curls falling down, tamed for once by Molly’s magic hand and lacking the smell of the chemicals from her experiments, she looked…. Different.

Not that Sherlock minded appearing womanly, exactly, but the corset was just another way of confining her body against her will. Cutting off her movements, her airflow. And it was hateful.

Every day, every single day, she plotted to find a new way around her brother’s overbearing rules and regulations, stealing unassuming servant dresses in the servant’s quarters and scouting to find a perfect place to scale the stone walls surrounding the palace.

And every day she was thwarted, by either the king guards, or her brother himself. 

Ever since the last debacle- where Sherlock was dragged back to the palace after stirring a pub brawl from her deductions and earning herself bloody knuckles, a swollen lip, and a black eye- her brother, Mycroft, had finally had enough and put his proverbial foot down.

“This is non negotiable Sherlock, I’ve had enough of your reckless jaunts. It was one ordeal when you were a child, but as a woman, your actions are unseemly and put you and your virtue at risk. it’s for your own good,” he had said brusquely, staring down his hooked nose at her where he sat at his desk, looking oh-so-important in his evening formal wear with the regal sash over his chest.

Well, he was the king, after all.

“Mycroft, I won't be kept here as a prisoner in my own home,” Sherlock asserted, trying to keep her ragged temper under control, but she knew Mycroft observed the tremble of her swollen lip and the hitch of her breath.

Damn him.

Mycroft raised one haughty eyebrow and stood up, “I’m late for dinner with the royal council, and you are quite aware of your new situation. You must begin to act in a way befitting a royal princess. And that is my final judgement on the matter,” he sniffed haughtily, threw her one last look of veiled disappointment, and swept from the room with his assistant and two guards flanking him.

And that was that.

No matter how many escape attempts she tried, bribes she made, and even, at one shameful moment of weakness, begging, she was not allowed to leave the castle under for any reason for the foreseeable future.

Oh yes, she had heard about the war-torn villages and what happened to women there. She knew the reality all too well- but Sherlock was desperate for freedom as everyday her brain was atrophying due to the dullness of court life. 

She had her lab, and her garden for samples, and her microscope and library, but all of her studies and books added up to nothing if she couldn't travel to the places she read about, apply the science she had been researching. 

She wanted to be more than a beautiful figure for the public to admire. 

Molly motioned for Sherlock to stand, and fitted her green bodice over her arms and torso, sewing it up in the back while Sherlock fiddled with the fabric, making huffing noises all the while. Molly rolled her eyes at her mistresses annoyed air, and continued dressing her, picking up the pace lest Sherlock dart from the room half-dressed, as she sometimes did when she was lost in her mind palace, dashing around with a skirt and chemise when her brilliance struck her.

“Honestly, Molly, who cares if I’m indecent?” Sherlock would say, rolling her eyes at Molly’s blushing second-hand embarrassment at Sherlock’s half nakedness in front of the palace guards who averted their eyes from their young, impulsive princess.

Shaking her head, Molly knelt down to help Sherlock slip into her favorite black skirt.

“Sherlock, for a late 21st birthday present, your brother ordered you new clothing from your favorite tailor. It should be here by next week, and it has new fabrics, which you should enjoy-“

Sherlock drew her hands up to steeple her hands below her chin, tuning out Molly as she babbled on about something or other. Sherlock was distracted, her ire growing with each passing moment as she was dressed and primped like a- well, a princess.

Which she desperately did not want to be.

She was jerked back from her musings by Molly forcefully tugging a wide black silk ribbon around her waist, tying a square bow and allowing the ribbons to flow down her back. Sherlock turned to gaze in the mirror, and was startled by the beautiful, regal looking woman in the mirror. Her curls framed her pale complexion and emphasized her long neck and defined cheekbones. The green and black contrasted beautifully and suited her to a tee. 

Too bad her eyes were dim with boredom and apathy.

She whipped around, her skirts flowing around her skinny legs as she confronted Molly.

“It wasn’t even that large of a brawl! I was in the right, you know. Those men were spewing nonsense about the feebleness of women and it was my duty to step in! This forced confinement is completely unacceptable and I wont stand for it,” Sherlock exclaimed, walking forward and slamming her hands down on the dressing table in indignation, her body slumping down and her curls tickling her neck.

“Shh, I know it may seem that way, your highness, but his Majesty simply wants what’s best for you. Your lip just healed a few days ago; you’ve been too reckless, as of late. You could’ve died,” Molly reminded gently, gathering ribbons, skirts and chemises as she flitted around Sherlock’s chaotic bedchamber.

Sherlock huffed, “if only,” sitting down and burying her head in her arms, ignoring her maid completely.

After a few moments of cleaning and sounds of movement, she heard Molly cry, “Sherlock,” while gasping in a scandalized manner. Sherlock grinned into her arms without lifting up her head.

So she finally found the frog’s eyes under the bed, then.

“You’re without a doubt the oddest girl I’ve ever known, your highness. Try to keep the body parts, animal and otherwise, out of your bedroom and in your lab where they belong,” Molly tsked disapprovingly, turning around the leave without another word about it.

Finally, Sherlock sighed, lifting her head up and meeting grey, changeable eyes in the mirror.

Despite her love of everything scientific and logical, Sherlock had a small spark of optimistic emotionalism buried in her self-proclaimed shriveled heart.

Her life was about to change, and it was right around the corner. She could feel it thrumming in her veins. 

“And when it does, I’ll be ready,” the princess murmured, spinning to stalk from the room, fine black skirts flowing and tickling her bare feet.

After all, who needs heels?

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sexual assault mentioned

 

Even though the vast lands of the realm were temperate and sunny, the northern mountains of the Fairlyn were unusually chilly.

The cold night air nipped at the bare skin of people who lived in the area as they went about their wares, numb to the cold and continuing on with their day-to-day lives, a stoic, hardened manner about their persons. 

The mountain town of Iris was not home to many jovial occasions- since the invasion of the Valwald armies two years ago. The King’s Guard had been scouting miles away due to false information they had received about a potential attach in the northern forest, and by the time they heard the clanging bells indicating an invasion was approaching Iris, it was too late.

It was far too late.

By the time the King’s Guard arrived, the Valwald had pillaged the town and stolen the crops and any salvageable goods with them, transporting them across the hostile boarder. They set fire to the village, watching the wooden roofs of the market burn as people rushed around in a panic. The ruthless soldiers took their livelihoods away in a wash of smoke and ash.

But the worst, so it was told, was the fate of the Iris women- young and old- who lay, bleeding and motionless, on the cold stone pave ways, their clothing torn and tattered from the hands of greedy, grasping men who took and took and _took_.

Until all there was left was the destitute ridden members of Iris, a once proud city, brought low by the failure of its protectors and the contemptible Valwald soldiers.

John felt a kinship with the people, the people who were empty eyed and sorrowful like her, and so she moved to the small city to wither away into anonymity.

Since she was stabbed in the shoulder during the Battle of Lochmage, John’s life had changed irrevocably. In the past year, she had been “relieved” by her commanding officer with the parting slot to, “go and fulfill your true purpose- your womb is not harmed and can be of use.” Since then, John had never fully recovered her wit or her will.

And so John watched the people of the town, feeling useless. She let her blue gaze wander across the marketplace where she sat slumped against a wall, always aware, a Captain through and through.

A mother was buying apples for her four screaming children, an old man was staring lecherously at a young maiden despite her stark refusal at his advances, and the regular sounds of dreary the marketplace surrounded John’s senses.

John felt simultaneously out of place and comforted by the sight of the people, trying to regain normalcy.

“Johnny, hey John! Did you hear the news!” John quickly turned to see Greg Lestrade, lieutenant of the King’s Guard, riding towards her with a wide grin on his handsomely lined face.

He gestured wildly, appearing out of place among the grey surroundings, “we’ve been called to the palace for an audience with the King! A quest, an untold journey John!”

John shook her head in dismissal, “you mean _you_ were called, Greg. I’m staying right here,” John looked around at the sullen faces around her, “after all, someone has to bring these people some fun.”

John winked flirtatiously at Lestrade and he chuckled, dismounted and grasping John on the shoulder- both of them attempting to ignore her wince.

“Come now John, you’ve been out of sorts for too long. It’s time, my friend, for a new adventure,” Lestrade’s kind eyes pleaded with her to reconsider, and John looked away from the pity she knew was lurking in his gaze.

“I’m not even qualified to be on the King’s Guard, Lestrade. In case you forgot, I’m not a man,” John said, rolling her eyes at the ludicrous law that only men could be admitted into the Guard. When she joined the army she was accepted, unwillingly, because they needed soldiers. Desperately. But the King’s Guard are an elite group of men who are fighters, soldiers and knights at the top of their skillset.

And while John was once a decent soldier and competent Captain, she knew that society would only allow so much.

“John, you're one of the best soldier's I've ever known. You're ruthless and precise, a leader through and through. I know you've been approached by others for your skills, but you turn them away. Just come with me, John. I can’t bear the thought of you here alone,” Greg begged, and damn, he knew that John could never resist a man begging for her, while complimenting something other than her womanly figure.

John huffed a put-upon sigh, a smiled fighting at the corners of her lips, “yes, I will attend your meeting with the King, for what good it will do you.”

The lieutenant let out a victorious “ _yes_ ,” startling some of the nearby village people.

The two packed their meager supplies and mounted their horses, beginning their journey to the palace- a two days ride from Iris. As the sounds of the city faded, John began to feel an optimistic hope settling over her (damaged) shoulders. 

This was the beginning of something new. Potentially dangerous. Interesting. 

“What do you know of the king?” John asked Lestrade once they were settled down a winding path to the palace. John knew the story- the suddenly orphaned prince who became king at the tender age of fifteen after his parents died in a shipwreck, only to prove to be one of the most politically savvy rulers in the realm. John was curious, having heard rumors from her small village in the western cost that the young king was a cold and unfeeling man.

“Well, he is not as cold as the rumors would have you believe. He is a fair king; ruthless when instructing battle plans, but not overly ambitious and unrealistic when it comes to supplies and casualties. He is a regal man, he walks into a room and it falls silent without him uttering a single word. I enjoy working under him,” Lestrade voiced, using an oddly soft tone for him. John was silent for a beat, and Lestrade groaned when he saw John smirking at him from the corner of his eye.

Lestrade huffed out a nervous-sounding laugh, “honestly, John, get your mind out of the sewer! He is our king, my direct superior; I am not attracted to him.”

“Mmmhm, I think thou dost protest too much,” John teased, sounding far too pleased, but due to Lestrade’s growing discomfort, she changed the topic: “Alright, well, what about the princess…. Sher-something or other.”

“Not my division,” Lestrade grumped, sounding in a far worse mood now than before, given the new line of questioning. 

“Wha-What? What does that even mean?” John queried, cocking her head and throwing her blonde braid over her shoulder in the process.

“Sherlock is, she's, well…. I’ll let you see for yourself,” Lestrade commented with finality, sounding distant to John’s ears as night began to fall around them and the conversation drifted off. 

In the quiet, with only the sound of the horse’s trotting along and the forest surrounding them, John pictured the princess in her mind’s eye.

She was probably beautiful- young, of course, probably in her early twenties and pampered. Oh yes, a pampered girl with no concept of the reality of life. She would wear the finest gowns and heels, with an air of sweet innocence that seemed to follow princesses in both fairytales and reality.

John always pictured the princess from a fairytale her mother used to read to her and her sister Harry when they were young. She probably had long, golden hair, a meek disposition, and adored the color rose. 

She would sing at parties, and dance with eligible bachelors, and mind her manners at the table. The only rumor John had ever heard was that the princess was not allowed to leave the castle, especially during the time of unrest with the Valwald. No commoner had ever seen her face, or if they had, they had been silenced about it. No one even knew what she looked like.

There were rumors of pale skin, and a deep voice for a woman, but otherwise no one really knew anything about the princess. It would only be a matter of time before she was wed. 

 _God_ , John thought, _what a boring_ _existence_.

“John, let’s stop for the night and set up camp,” Lestrade called, jerking John out of her fantasies. He was guiding his steed towards a clearing nearby,

They dismounted and set up camp, tying their horses to trees and scouting the area to assure its safety.

“I’ll take the first watch,” he said, and John simply nodded and went over to her cot which she placed under an oak tree, finding the smell soothing. As she took out her braid and ran her fingers through her, admittedly, greasy hair, she thought about soft, dark curls twisting around her fingers instead. A phantom sensation, so real she could hardly breath for a moment at the enormity. She twisted her hands, mesmerized. 

And then the sensation faded, and she was left with only her limp strands curling around her calloused fingertips.

 _That’s odd_ , John thought with a shrug, laying down and closing her eyes, putting princesses and phantom curls far from her mind as she succumbed to sleep.

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos give me, as a writer, life! Any suggestions are welcome :) Best, DPS


	3. Chapter 3

 When John awoke it was with a gasp, flying up into a sitting position with her back ramrod straight and prepared for battle.

Her heart was racing as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings, an oak tree and a clearing. Where was she?

God, oh no.

Panic was rising, flooding in her chest as she tried to calm the panic from the dream of the war, clenching her fists rhythmically.

_Swords clashing together with a reverberating clang as John orders the men and women under her charge to advance, advance, advance into the blood-filled battlefield, knowing that most wont survive but ordering fearless sacrifice nonetheless.…_

“John?” Lestrade’s voice cut through the haunting recollection, bringing John back the clearing.

“You’re alright, John,” Lestrade consoled where he sat propped up nearby, sharpening his sword in the dim firelight where he sat on watch. His eyes looked sadly at John, and she realized she had most likely been calling out in her sleep as well.

John felt her face begin to heat at the knowledge that Lestrade had witnessed her moment of panic, moments that women in battle could not afford. She cleared her throat while awkwardly ringing her small, calloused hands together, “I’ll, uh, take the watch. You get some sleep.”

Noticing his friend’s refusal to acknowledge her nightmares, and her refusal to meet his eyes, Lestrade simply shrugged and went over to his cot without argument, whistling softly under his breath to dispel the tension that had risen between the two companions.

John watched as he sheathed his sword and settled down to catch a few hours rest before they continued their journey to the castle.

John sighed and shook her head, gazing up at the moon and finding no solace in the dark.

 

* * *

 

Across the land, Sherlock sat perched on her window seat, drawing her legs up and clutching her silken nightgown as she looked over the palace gardens- garden being a modest term for the acres of sprawling flowers, shrubs, fountains and statues that continued past where even her sharp gaze could see.

She remembered afternoons spent exploring those gardens when she was a child, playing pirates with Mycroft before be became too busy being reared as the crown prince to concern himself with his lesser sister and her childish games. In the dark, when she was alone, she could admit that she missed his company. It was lonely being a genius with no audience.

And now she couldn’t sleep- it evaded her since a feeling of unease woke her in the middle of the night. She saw the bright glint of metal, and felt a choking moment of utter anguish.

Perhaps a battle _? But that would be ridiculous_ , Sherlock sneered to herself and drew her legs tighter around her,  _I will never see battle. I’ll never see beyond these palace walls_.

No, Sherlock was doomed to a life of plastered smiles, and corsets, and men; when all she wanted was a quiet place to tend bees, and freedom and….

Never mind what else she wanted. She couldn't choose her destiny. She would have to wed at some point, and quickly. Marriage negotiations were already happening behind closed doors, and soon she would be sold off like a prized mare to help the kingdom's resources in these dire times.

That would be her sacrifice.  

With a sigh, she leaned her forehead against the windowpane and stared at the moon, wondering at its correlation to the stars and vast world beyond this one run by people intent on gaining power. That is, men running the world and insisting on power.

Sherlock had no interest in men, despite the inevitability of her life that she would be married off to one and forced to breed. Every time Mrs. Hudson even attempted to bring up copious in the martial bed Sherlock faked an illness to escape. The mere thought of allowing a man to violate her made her stomach twist in knots. She had no interest in men or children. She just wanted.... Well, not that. 

"Can anyone be happy if they aren't free?" She whispered to herself. 

Sherlock laid her head down on her knees, feeling her curls tumble down the silken fabric as she closed her eyes- just for a moment….

 

* * *

 

“-lock! Sherlock!”

Her eyes flew open, her neck stinging in pain from the prolonged muscle strain as she moved her head to see Mrs. Hudson standing at the door, hands on her hips and a disapproving glint in her, surprisingly sharp, eyes.

“What are you doing sleeping at the windowsill? You’ll catch your death, young lady,” she snapped, bustling around the bedchambers to get to Sherlock’s wardrobe.

Sherlock merely grumbled, standing up and stretching her thin arms above her head, cracking her back in the process and released a satisfied sigh. Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue at Sherlock’s unladylike mannerisms once more before continuing to search through her many (many) gowns.

“You’re needed in the council chambers, per the his majesty’s command,” she continued, reaching deep into the chest and pulling out- oh, god, no- a pink taffeta gown that had been a “gift” from Mycroft on her 18th birthday. Cruel bastard. 

“I’ll not be needing that monstrosity, Mrs. Hudson, as I will not be attending,” Sherlock replied imperiously, stepping on top of her settee and plopping down, watching her overlarge dressing gown float around her as she settled back to lounge and reorganize her mind palace.

“Oh no you don’t,” Mrs. Hudson commanded, striding over and pinching Sherlock-sharply- in the arm, ignoring her cry, “you’ve slept half the day away, and you’ve been shirking your duties as the princess of Fairlyn for long enough.”

Sherlock sighed, dutifully following Mrs. Hudson to the wardrobe and ignoring the vomit-inducing monstrosity Mrs. Hudson had chosen in favor of her favorite deep violet dress with black embroidery. 

Sherlock secretly loved her beautiful gowns, she just hated that she was paraded about in them for men's pleasure. She wore her gowns for _herself_. 

“What duties might those be, sitting still, keeping my mouth closed, and looking pretty?” Sherlock sneered as Mrs. Hudson divested her of her nightgown and left her in her altogether while she went to grab undergarments.

“Yes, Sherlock, for one,” she said, “but also to show your involvement in the kingdom when the king meets with foreign dignitaries and commoners- you’re such a recluse that very few people know what you look like. You are more than just a girl, you’re a symbol for the realm of feminine beauty and poise-“ Mrs. Hudson cut off as Sherlock rolled her eyes and shot a highly unflattering hand signal to her nanny of more than twenty years.

“Well I’ve never…. Sherlock Regina Evelyn Holmes, you are not too old for me to put over my knee, and don’t think I wont,” she declared with a fierce glare at her charge. Sherlock paled and her mouth fell open in shock.

She hadn’t been smacked in years, the indignity of even the suggestion! Suddenly, standing there naked was uncomfortable, and she nodded slightly in chastisement, looking down.

Mrs. Hudson sniffed, still glaring at Sherlock, while coming over and shoving a chemise over her head and mussing her curls, “That’s right! Now, you will attend this meeting and employ all the graces that I taught you, and I will not hear another word about it. Is that quite clear?”

Sherlock nodded, feeling dejected and trapped as Mrs. Hudson wheedled her into her clothes like a young one of five years, tamed her curls and placed some rouge on her pale cheeks. Sherlock felt like a doll as she was prepared to be viewed by men, to please them, essentially. Her purple dress hugged her figure and shot out at her hips into a full skirt, making her appear more curved then she truly was. She sulked in silence, and slipped her black heels on while Mrs. Hudson chattered on about them running late. She was then instructed her to follow her nanny to the chambers- “and don’t you give me any trouble, young lady.”

Sherlock nodded and followed silently, feeling slightly guilty that she had been so rude to the woman who had practically raised her; but she was so frustrated! Every day, to be no more than an object to be used or dismissed at the will of others, to have no freedom, no choices, it was destroying her.

When the two women paused outside of the council chambers, Mrs. Hudson saw Sherlock’s thinly masked sadness and drew the bony woman into her arms for an embrace. Sherlock stood still for a moment before melting into the affection of her nanny. 

”I know it isn’t far, my dear, the way you’re treated. I know you never wished for this life, but please,” she pleaded, pulling back to gaze into Sherlock’s intelligent eyes, “please find a way to be happy in the life you’ve been given.”

With a final squeeze, she let go and scurried down the hall to manage the staff for the banquet happening that night.

"How?" Sherlock sighed, her heart beating quickly as she motioned for the doorman to open the ornate entry to the chambers and to announce her arrival.

“Introducing her royal highness, Princess Sherlock of Fairlyn,” he boomed. Sherlock took and breath and set her expression. She stepped into the chambers and the noisy room quieted as the elusive princess strode into the room, a cold look marring her beautiful features.

As she walked along the expansive hall, the click of her heels reverberated off the walls as Sherlock gazed at the contemptible men surrounding her, deducing them and finding them lacking.

Once she neared the throne, she observed the presence of a stranger. A female stranger, dressed as a solider with armor, riding pants and boots on her full figure. Hmm. Odd. 

“Ah, little sister, I’m so glad you could come,” Mycroft simpered, as if he hadn’t demanded it, “you know Gregory Lestrade, lieutenant in the King’s Guard,” he gestured to the silver-haired man who bowed slightly to the princess, who in response rolled her eyes. “Yes, and this is John Watson,” he gestured to the blonde woman who bristled at her title being so obviously disregarded but maintained a civil enough air.

Interesting. Sherlock's mind was firing with deductions about the young woman. Small but strong, with honey blonde hair that was thrown back in a careless braid and a weary expression. She had a plump figure that was built with muscles from her active lifestyle, and she had the careful hands of someone who could handle a gun. She was favoring her right side, her shoulder on the left somewhat slumped where she stood in parade rest- wounded in battle then.

It was recent, as she could be no more than twenty-five, and she was obviously still suffering from nightmares and anxiousness regarding the incident, so maybe….

“Battle of Lochmage or Jucal?” Sherlock asked, her musical voice echoing around the silent chambers as she deduced the short woman who held secrets in her azure gaze.

The woman cocked her head to the side, her shiny blonde braid falling across her weathered armor. Sherlock smirked at the contrasting sight. 

“Lochmage, but, how did you know?” The woman spoke- a soft voice, but firm and unyielding. Utterly captivating, Sherlock observed, but pushed the thought away to make room for her deductive skills. She paced forward, coming to a halt in front of the throne and standing a mere yard away from the woman in question, running her piercing gaze up and down her body. 

“You’ve been wounded in battle, recently as they’ve only been allowing women into battle for the past three years due to desperation caused by the Valwald. Your left shoulder was pierced and you most likely suffered from an infection, which caused a long recovery period. The way you hold yourself says battle ready, the way you speak indicates a command of some kind- perhaps a Captain? Either way, it is simple enough to see once you know where to look,” Sherlock dismissed with a wave of her hand, inwardly smug as she took in Mycroft’s tightening jaw and the council members shocked silence.

The council knew the princess had a bright mind, as she flew through her studies and spent much of her time in her lab or the library, but she was clearly a genius. A genius overlooked due to her reclusive nature and status.  John and Lestrade shared a shocked look, but when John turned back to Sherlock, she was smiling.

Sherlock saw the soft grin on the soldier's face and felt confused- no one had ever reacted favorably before.

“That was brilliant, princess, simply brilliant,” John praised as she walked a few steps towards her and, ignoring the shocked glances and murmurings in the hall, bowed low and bestowed a kiss to Sherlock’s bony hand. Sherlock stood still as a statue, shocked that the woman would bestow a man's greeting in such a public space. Her lips were soft and warm, oh so warm, against Sherlock's skin, and she felt a tingling run up her arm. 

John glanced up, still bent over, and gave Sherlock a tiny wink. Sherlock gasped inaudibly and felt her cheeks pinking at the attention from the female soldier. _Oh_.

“Uh, I, that is,” Sherlock stammered while John straightened up to look at her, and despite their height difference, Sherlock felt as if John’s presence cowed her, “that’s very kind of you to say, Captain Watson.” _Since most people say to keep my mouth shut..._

John merely smiled at her lackluster response, her eyes crinkling in the corners, and Sherlock’s cold, unfeeling heart gave a sudden, warm thump.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

The day passed in a blur for John.

She woke Greg up with the sunrise, ignoring his grumbling as they torn down their camp and wrapped up their cots. Once they had packed up they set off, the journey was fairly simple. They arrived at the palace at mid-day with little fanfare, despite John's hammering heart. She had never wished to go to the palace, and now she was going to stand before the king and receive an assignment to travel to the ends of the realm to protect a King she had never met. 

Lestrade, sensing her nervousness, tried to distract her with tales of the King's Guard and life at the castle, “wait until you see the castle, John. It’s something else,” Lestrade said as they rode, and John had merely rolled her eyes. A building couldn’t possibly be _that_ impressive.

But she was mistaken.

John marveled at the magnificent gates that were at least twenty feet tall, the iron formed into vines that twisted along the metal gates and appeared sharp enough to ward away any potential trespassers.

It was terrifying in its beauty, and indicative of the time of turmoil in their realm.

The enormous gates were connected to a surrounding wall that stretched as far as John’s eye could see. The granite stones seeming to shine in the glaring afternoon sun as Lestrade and John rode up the winding pathway to the palace stables. Why was such a barrier needed? To keep people out? 

Or to keep someone in, perhaps. 

As they passed through the gates and the King's Guard standing watch, John took in her first view of the castle grounds: “Holy-“ John whispered, taking in the majesty and enormity surrounding her.

The palace was surrounded with ancient willow trees and sprawling green fields; the nature beauty of the grey structure was starling, and John felt her chest pounding as they rode towards the intimidating edifice. It was a remarkable piece of architecture, and John had never seen such a sight, gulping when Lestrade shot her a “you see?” look, raising his eyebrows.

John gave a nervous giggle and shook her head in agreement, that yes; this place was truly a marvel.

Once they had tended to their horses, a young, stammering page guided them both to the council chambers for an audience with the king.

As they walked along the hallways covered in tapestries and chandeliers, John saw beautiful and exotic paintings and sculptures that she had never seen the likes of before, pictures of past monarchs, great battles told in their history, and places far across the realm that she would never see.

It was jaw-dropping it its elaborateness. 

But one sculpture, in particular, caught her interest. She slowed to a halt in front of a severe, coldly beautiful marble bust of a young woman. Her beautiful visage was frozen in a scowl, her full lips turned down in displeasure, as if she loathed the fact that she was being sculpted.

She couldn’t be any older than nineteen in the depiction, and without realizing, John stepped closer to examine the curious features of the girl.

The statue depicted a young woman with sharp cheekbones and her collarbones could hold a drink, they were so defined. Her curled tresses ran down her neck and curled just above her small breasts in unruly ringlets. Her eyes were narrowed, much like a predator in the jungle, but she had softness about her features that made the disjointed parts quite… lovely.

Yes, quite lovely indeed,

“Watson, hey! There you are, John, come on,” Greg called, staring at John from down the hallway with a confused look on his face. He cocked his head and questioned, “what are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” John coughed, self-consciously, giving the haunting statue one last glance before hurrying down the hallway to catch up to Lestrade. As she walked, she tried to shake the young woman from her mind, but nagging curiosity left her to wonder: what might the color of her eyes be? What color would those curls be in the sunlight? What color is the unblemished skin? 

Between one beat and another, they were paraded in front of the king, who hardly even looked at John. He kept his beady eyes trained on Lestrade as he discussed the parameters of the mission they were to set forth on in the following week, and John barely stopped herself from crossing her arms in displeasure. 

Mycroft refused to acknowledge her rank, calling her John with a dismissive air of the upper class, and John gritted her teeth against the barrage of insults that she wanted to yell to their pompous sovereign.

Right before she was about to politely correct King Mycroft (and his presumptuous attitude), the doorman announced the Princess of Fairlyn's arrival, and the entire chamber turned to the enormous doorway to see the enigmatic princess arrive.

A woman in a silken violet gown stepped through the door, her pointy chin held high and her dark curls offsetting the paleness of her skin and she strode forward, contempt for those in the room pouring off of her in waves.

"I am above you," she seemed to say, "and you all should know it." 

She was breathtaking, and John’s eyes ran up and down the delicate body once, twice, before training her eyes back to the princess’ face.

Oh, it was _her_.

In seemingly a blink of an eye, the statue’s subject was standing (imperiously) before her, having silenced a room of men with only the hardness of her gaze and the click of her heels. John knew something about commanding a group of men, and her respect for the young woman rose. 

And then, between one breath and another, between meaningless introductions and platitudes, she flayed John alive- deducing her injury, her station, and her vulnerabilities to a room of strangers, and to her King. And yet….

Without processing her next movement, the room faded away and John was bowing before the young woman, lifting the soft, ivory hand to her lips for a courtly kiss and praising the brilliant creature before her. Her skin was cold and pale, and the likeness between her and her statue seemed complete. 

The girl who was equally as illusive as her marble counterpart, but unlike the hardened and unfeeling statue, the princess was quickly growing flushed under John’s attentions.

To add insult to injury, John looked into her grey eyes, the color of a storm in May, and winked.

She heard the princess gasp quietly. Inwardly, John was crowing that her simple praises and a chaste kiss could undo the brilliant, capable woman such as the one before her and transform her into a stammering, blushing youth.

After all, she was as innocent as a child, locked up in the castle with hardly any social interaction. All that brilliance, but without any knowledge of the world. 

John stood up from her bowing position and listened as the untouchable princess thanked her (while stammering a touch) and mentioned her by rank. She smiled genuinely at the girl in response, nodding her head to thank the princess for the acknowledgment.

 _Hmm, maybe things do happen to me, after all,_ John thought, hope rising in her chest as she gazed at the princess before her. 

Yes, just maybe. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sweat dripped down her neck as John lunged forward again, burying her lance deeply into the target before her as she practiced on the training grounds in the castle.

Bull’s-eye.

A few meters away, the commander of the King’s guard- Thrymn- watched John with a critical eye as he sharped his longsword, tracking John’s movements and observing her skill at close-hand combat. She had passed the tests for speed, agility, and fighting on horseback. John took down a man- Anderson- twice her size on the training grounds the day before, and despite Thrymn’s unwillingness to even test a woman, she was exceeding his high-set expectations for one of his guards.

He was quietly impressed. 

“As I was saying, Commander, John would be a fantastic addition to the guards,” Lestrade offered, observing Thrymn’s blank expression with a sense of cautious hope, “she was at the Battle of Lochmage as a Captain, and although she injured her shoulder, it does not imped her ability to fight.”

The commander grunted in response, observing John’s elegant footwork and quick movements and she firmly moved her sword with the determination and skill of practiced swordsmen, plunging it once again into the bull’s-eye with accuracy. Begrudgingly, he nodded and agreed, “yes, fine, she would be an appropriate addition- with our numbers so depleted, we cannot be picky. Even if she _is_ a lass.”

John, listening to the men’s conversation as she lunged back and forth, bristled at the comment about her lesser status; but she stifled her urge to correct and kept her eyes forward and focused- the perfect soldier.

Commander Thrym began to approach her and she turned, sheathing her sword, straitening her back, and clearing her expression. This was it.

“Sir,” she acknowledged with a nod.

“Captain Watson, I am reinstating you to your former command and am inviting you to join the King’s Guard. Will you pledge fealty to your king and vow to protect him, his family, and the realm above all else?”

At that moment, John felt a pair of eyes on her and, glancing across the grounds, she saw a pale pair of eyes watching her with a curious expression. John smirked slightly and raised her eyebrows at the girl once she realized the identity of her audience member was Sherlock- when the princess discovered that John had found her out, she darted behind the stone pillar, her purple skirts flowing behind her as she fled.

'The princess does not strike me as particularly shy. I want to know her,' John thought

Quelling a smile, John nodded and, putting a fist to her heart, vowed, “Yes sir, I shall.”

As Thrymn nodded once and began to turn away, John impetuously added, “Sir, I have an idea of how I can help protect the family before I leave on the Quest with Lestrade.”

Raising a skeptical brow, Thrymn grunted, “Yes, Watson?”

John smiled slightly and spoke.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock, heart beating rapidly, dashed down the hallway to her chambers, almost running into the librarian on the way and ignoring his cry, “Princess Sherlock!”

She saw me. She _saw_ me.

Rushing through the door, she slammed it behind her, slumping back against it with a sigh as if she has escaped a demon. With her heart racing she clenched her hands together, her feet carrying her to her bed while her mind swirled with deductions and confusing emotional nuances that Sherlock had no use for before.

 _Before_. But now, oh, now there was a before and after- a time before John.

Sherlock lay down on her bed and tried to quell her racing heart, closing her eyes to picture it; John was magnificent, fighting the King’s Guard, passing all the tests with aplomb and taking down Anderson, the largest swordsmen with a ridiculous complex regarding his size. 

All of it with her small stature, her fine sword, and her blonde hair swinging in the wind as she smoothed the fine hair that escaped from her face, wiping the sweat and blood from her brow and giving her favor to Sherlock….

As if waking from a dream, Sherlock’s eyes popped open with alarm. None of those thoughts made sense.... A heat was spreading through her abdomen and across her nose, and she was distinctly uncomfortable in her skin.

Sherlock's hands reached down to lift her purple skirts up to pool around her knees. Was it always so hot in her bedroom? 

Her thighs were rhythmically flexing together, uncontrolled by her mind-palace, pumping in blood and a pressure was mounting through her cheeks, chest, abdomen, and, oh god, what….

“Sherlock dear, I’m coming in!”

Mrs. Hudson’s voice broke through the fog surrounding Sherlock and she sat up, panting slightly and her hair spread wildly around her flushed face, shoving her skirt down in the process.

While the princess was frantically pressing down her curls, Mrs. Hudson strolled in with her usual fervor, “Sherlock, we need to discuss- what are you doing in bed at this hour? Are you sick?” Mrs. Hudson hurried over to check on her ward while Sherlock took a deep breath to control herself.

Waving Mrs. Hudson’s hands away and stood up, her indifferent expression in place, “I’m perfectly fine now, Mrs. Hudson, as you can see. Just a spell, nothing more. What did you need to discuss?”

Mrs. Hudson squinted her eyes disbelievingly but shrugged her shoulders, heading back to the wardrobe while Sherlock frantically formulated reasons to leave and be alone- and get that feeling back, whatever it was…

“Well darling, as you know, there is a ball tonight to raise Fairlyn’s spirits during this dark time, and you simply must attend. There will be many eligible suitor’s for you to choose from- after all, we must get you married before the bloom has quite gone off the rose,” Mrs. Hudson clucked to herself as she pulled out three massive ball gowns.

Sherlock rolled her eyes but, remembering her promise to Mrs. Hudson, obligingly went over to pick a gown.

As she sifted through the ridiculous gowns, deeming the red one acceptable, Mrs. Hudson continued nattering on, “also, dear, you’re to have a personal bodyguard. I was just told that they are coming soon and will be stationed with you at all times to protect you from any potential invaders.”

Wait- what!? No, no, no! This could not be happening. 

Sherlock raged, “No, no, absolutely not! This is madness, Mrs. Hudson! It is one thing to be confined to my house arrest, and to dress and perform in public as a good, little princess, but I absolutely will not allow-“

“Am I interrupting?” A soft voice echoed in the vast bedchambers, and Sherlock spun around to positively scream at the intruder and vent her rage on the unforeseen target, until she saw who it was.

Struck silent, Sherlock took a step back and nearly toppled over the vanity. John smothered a smile and continued to stand in the doorway at parade rest, a slightly cocky smile twisting her thin lips. 

Mrs. Hudson sighed in exasperation, “Sherlock, please be more careful or you’ll break your neck! This is Captain John Watson, she is to be your new bodyguard. You've already made her acquaintance, so be nice.”

At this, John nodded formally to Sherlock and the princess found her heart rate steadily rising once again.

"It's a pleasure to meet you again, your highness." 

Sherlock's mind was spinning in a panic. _John was her bodyguard, John would be with her at all times. Danger. Too close._  Mrs. Hudson’s voice seemed very far away as John and Sherlock locked gazes, pale blue meeting stormy grey.

“And I expect you to treat her with nothing but grace, or you’ll be quite unhappy indeed. I’ll be back in one hour to help you get bathe and get ready. Until then, become acquainted with Captain Watson or else. ”

With that parting shot, she whisked away and shut the door behind her, leaving Sherlock and John staring at one another in thick silence.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock and John stared at one another from across the chamber for a moment. With their eyes locked, the two were stunned into a silence that seemed both weighted and fragile.

Sherlock, unfamiliar with uncertainty of any kind, was the first to break the silence between the two.

“So, you are planning to stay for a while, I'm surprised Thrymn is giving you a chance despite his distrust of women,” Sherlock observed, turning around and walking back to her wardrobe to hide her flushing cheeks.

John hummed behind her in agreement, but she did not expand. Walking around the room herself, John was startled by the opulence paired with… oddities.

There were frogs legs displayed next to pearl necklaces at the armoire, a microscope placed lovingly at the center of an oak desk, and an ornate fireplace with a skull on the mantle. While the room was filled with golden chandeliers and bright windows, the darkness of the décor seemed a perfect blend for the occupant of the suite.

It was a mixture of wealth and the macabre and it seemed to fit John’s new charge perfectly; beauty and obstinacy, feminine grace and wicked intelligence.

A whirling genius of a woman- a princess who had spent her life in forced seclusion. 

“I play the violin.”

John spun around from her place at the mantle to see the princess peering at her from across the room with a hesitant expression upon her face.

“What, princess?” John cocked her head to the side in confusion.

Sherlock was nervously fiddling with her violet skirt and, when she realized this, smoothed the fabric back down with a huff of annoyance, “I mean, I play the violin. I sometimes refuse to talk for days on end. Will that bother you?”

John stared at the nervous girl, uncomprehending in the face of the nervous chatter.

The princess added sarcastically, “My bodyguard should know the worst about me.”

“Ah,” John chuckled softly, ignoring Sherlock’s sharpened gaze, “so you’re not going to throw me out, have me beheaded? I thought you would hate to have a bodyguard or a keeper. I had expected-“

“What did you expect?” Sherlock fired back, her expression growing cold, “did you expect me to refuse? I don’t have the freedom to choose. You must know that. Heard the rumors about me. 'The princess who is never seen,'” She mimicked coldly. 

She paced back and forth for a moment before turning and walking quickly across the floor, her voice growing in volume.

“I can’t leave the castle because of the unrest in the kingdom and my own "frailty," and now I apparently can’t even be trusted to leave my _nursery_ without a King’s Guard. A _female_ King’s Guard no less,” she spat.

She was building speed, and as she continued her cheeks flushed with anger until she was standing two feet away from John; John stood her ground and her gaze did not waver from the furious princess. Do not back down, do not show weakness.

“So if you’re finished asking idiotic questions, I will ask you to leave,” she sniffed.

“You will be stationed outside of my door and I will call for you when I need you, which I can assure you will not happen,” Sherlock promised with a sneer, her lovely lips twisted in distaste.

John thought for a moment but quickly realized the futility of arguing with the incensed girl- she bowed lowly and softly said, “yes, princess, of course.”

Then she turned and walked slowly to the door, feeling the heated grey eyes following her every move.

Closing the door to the lavish suite with a click, John hunched against the door with a quiet groan. That has not gone well at all. Perhaps John had overanalyzed Sherlock’s original reaction when she had kissed her hand.

What was she even doing here? 

As she rubbed her face, her left shoulder gave a twinge. What a day.

* * *

 

Left alone, Sherlock marched back over to her dressing table and slumped down, burying her head in her arms with a sigh.

This is why she didn’t have friends. Her biting tongue and natural distrust of, well, everyone made friendship an impossible task. 

When she was a child, other noble children had been brought to court for Mycroft and Sherlock to play with, but the two geniuses were often outcasts among their royal playmates.

None of the children even mocked them to their faces, they always said, “yes, your highness” or “no, your highness.”

But Sherlock and Mycroft both knew that, if the situation had been even slightly different, they would be completely alone.

And when Sherlock would run to her big brother for comfort (as she used to do, once upon a time), Mycroft would try to comfort his little sister with his ironclad reasoning: “The noble children are unworthy our time, Sherlock. We are leaders of a nation, with the resources and intelligence to secure our reign, and they are the offshoots of nobility with no particular intelligence or positive characteristics to lend to the nation. They’re goldfish.”

Sherlock would giggle at her older brother’s description of normal children and would run off alone to play with the earthworms in the garden.

But still, in the depths of her well-hidden heart, Sherlock wished for a friend, just one: someone who knew her and still loved her.

What does it mean to be truly understood?

And John was so brave- she was a captain who had been injured but still tried to help others at Iris; she was small and soft-spoken, but still captivating with long dark blonde hair and sea-blue eyes.

And there was a quiet wisdom within her: a woman who had seen the world, the world Sherlock had never been permitted to experience.

And she had kissed her hand.

Rolling her eyes at nothing, Sherlock sat up and wandered over to her microscope to complete her bacteria-culture experiment from this morning.

After all, what was done is done. John is her bodyguard and that was that. And now, thanks the Sherlock’s outburst, they wouldn't be friends. Being alone was what she could count on- that way, she would never be disappointed.

Beyond that, John stirred up confusing feelings within her. It would be best to keep her distance. 

Sherlock shook her head from her melancholy thoughts and adjusted the focus on her microscope. 


	7. Chapter 7

A knock at the door roused Sherlock from her experiment.

“Enter,” she called, nervously peeking towards the door in case it was….

Mrs. Hudson strolled into the room with a row of servants who were carrying all sorts of odds and ends: towels, perfumes, combs, jewelry, and heels in a neat succession. Sherlock shuddered at the unwelcome sight. She'd almost forgotten about the impending unpleasantness of the ball. 

“Sherlock, dear, it's time for your bath,” Mrs. Hudson announced, clapping her hands together. She looked around the room for a moment before turning to Sherlock, “Sherlock, why is John stationed outside instead of in here with you?”

“Because we agreed that it would be best for my safety if she were stationed at the entrance to deter any intruders,” Sherlock lied easily, and Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement a moment afterwards.

“As long as you were polite- John looked positively out of sorts in the hallway!” Mrs. Hudson began to instruct the servants while Sherlock peered curiously at the door. Perhaps she was too cruel to John before, perhaps John hadn’t meant to….

Sherlock stood and began to walk towards the entrance before a hand tugging her wrist halted her.

“Now Sherlock, it's time for your bath, don’t go running off now,” Mrs. Hudson reminded, and Sherlock allowed herself to be led into the attached bath, glancing back at the door where the lonely soldier was standing guard.

As she stepped into the bathroom, female servants were busy adding soap to the large claw-foot tub and the room was already filling with jasmine-scented steam. The room itself was nearly as large as her bedroom suite with a tub large enough to easily fit three adults comfortable and everything was detailed with gold. There were plush armchairs, a separate stall for the privy, and a small chandelier. Sherlock felt herself begin to calm against her will as Ms. Hudson began untying her corset and she was able to freely draw in breaths. 

Privacy was a luxury that royals did not have, so Sherlock quickly stood almost nude as the servants finished preparations for her bath while tapping her foot impatiently.

Mrs. Hudson reminded Sherlock to be out of the bath within a half an hour when she returned to help her dress, and Sherlock grunted in reply.

Finally, as the last maid curtsied to leave with a quiet, “your highness.” Sherlock immediately threw her chemise from over her head and stepped into the hot bath, sighing as she sunk down beneath the steaming water and the foaming soap.

The scent of jasmine filled the room and she felt the curls at the nape of her neck wetly pressing against her skin.

A sharp knock at the bathroom door sent her flailing up, pausing in confusion. The knock wasn’t familiar to her- Mrs. Hudson’s was brief and firm, her brother’s was loud and obnoxious, and Molly’s was timid. Who then was this…?

“Princess?” A soft, muffled voice asked through the door, “May I enter?”

Oh. Oh, no. It couldn't be…

“Your highness, Mrs. Hudson asked for me to check on you and make sure you, um, washed your hair as she instructed…” John’s voice trailed off with an awkward cough.

“Go away, John,” Sherlock ordered, her command somewhat weakened by her voice breaking, “I’m perfectly able to wash myself.”

“That’s what I told your nurse, but she insisted,” was the sheepish reply.

Sherlock stared at the door for a moment longer replying: “Fine, enter.”

Looking down at the bubbles, which mostly blocked her nudity, Sherlock heard the door open and close quietly. John did not approach any closer to the bath, but rather stayed firmly planted where she had entered, and silence stretched through the room.

“Listen, your highness,” John began hesitantly, “I am sorry that I overstepped the mark earlier in regards to your freedom- it wasn’t my intention; please accept my apology.”

“You mean my lack of freedom,” Sherlock murmured under her breath, but she did look up to meet John’s gaze.

She was peering at Sherlock with a pleading expression and something else, something darker that Sherlock couldn’t quite identify.

“And in regards to me being a woman, well,” John smiled, “I’m sure you know something about the difficulty of succeeding in a man’s world. That said, I can and will protect you above my own life if it comes to it, your highness. I am more than up to the task.” With this, John knelt down on one knee and placed her fist over her heart to pledge fealty to Sherlock.

Sherlock was silent for a moment longer, loathing the fact they were having this discussion of allegiance and loyalty while she was  _naked_  in a bath but pleasantly surprised at John's forthright attitude.

“Fine, apology accepted, fealty accepted, all of it. Now, leave me be,” Sherlock dismissed John with the wave of her hand, closing her eyes and leaning back so her neck rested on the edge of the tub.

“I’m afraid I promised Mrs. Hudson that I would ensure you washed your curls, and frankly, Mrs. Hudson is more than a little terrifying,” John admitted with a sheepish grin, imploring Sherlock to be kind, “so, I will be over here if you need anything, princess.”

John settled onto plush chair that sat in the corner of the bathroom with a relieved sigh after standing for such a long period of time.

“Good lord! So you’re not to be my bodyguard, you’re to be my babysitter!” Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up with a burst and sending water careening all over the floor.

“Well, ah,” John rubbed the back of her neck, “I’m here for your welfare, to keep you out of trouble, and the make sure you’re safe at all times.”

“So a babysitter,” Sherlock scoffed, sinking deeper into the bath with a huff and glaring at the painted ceiling.

“Princess, I can leave as soon as you wash your hair,” John remarked, making 'princess' sound like a fond epithet.

“Fine,” the princess growled and, sitting up, reached for the conditioner that soothed her errant curls.

As she poured the oily substance into her hands, she felt John’s eyes piercing her body from her placement across the room. Glancing down, Sherlock realized the bubbles had gone down significantly since they had begun their argument and, with the water she had sloshed on the floor, her sharp collarbones and most of her upper chest were now exposed.

When Sherlock looked up at John, she quickly turned her head away to preserve Sherlock’s ‘modesty,’ her cheeks slightly flushed from the princess' exposure. Sherlock rolled her eyes and, trying to ignore the pulsating heat gathering in her abdomen, she reached her arms up to rub the substance into her hair, ensuring to comb it through every curl. 

John never looked directly at her, but Sherlock could feel her presence across the room and felt her breasts tightening, her heart racing, and her nipples hardening. What was happening?

This-this glorified babysitter was no different from any of the servants that had coddled her in the past. Why was her transport acting oddly? 

Trying to quell her disconcerting excitement at the proximity of her guard, she hurried through her task in order to gain some space from the vulnerable position she was in. She was utterly naked, with a practical stranger less than ten feet away; and yet, she felt safe in the ex-captain's company all the same. 

“I’m finished; now please get back to work and stop annoying me with your ceaseless prattle,” Sherlock remarked, somewhat breathlessly, and John merely nodded and slipped from the steamed room without meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

As John disappeared through the doorway, Sherlock leaned back and tried to regain her relaxed state. 

Cupping her breasts, Sherlock noted that they seemed sensitive to her touch and her face felt positively flushed. Perhaps it was the bath.

She glanced at the door.

Perhaps.


	8. Chapter 8

John walked as calmly as she could from the princess’ bath, internally panicking the entire time as she practically ran through the lavish suite to get back to her post.

‘Oh god, look how beautiful she is, she’s all wet and… Oh lord, just a couple more inches and I would’ve see her breasts-‘ John’s thoughts spun out of control as she quickly walked back to the hallway to stand at attention.

This temporary position was going to be far more challenging than John had anticipated.

While the princess had charmed John entirely, she had not considered that the princess would loathe her due to her position as bodyguard and “babysitter.” It made sense the princess was resentful- John understood the frustration of being overlooked and bossed around. 

Additionally, John’s own reactions to the princess’ beauty would be so difficult to face. She was just so cold, calculating, and _beautiful._  

John was by no means a prude- she had bedded men and women across Fairlyn of all rank and station. She had the reputation to prove it. While the reminders of her old days in the army made her feel prideful and a little smug, she had never met a single person who intrigued and excited her like the secluded princess: the mere sight of her infatuated John.

Her cheekbones, her changeable eyes, and the top of her wet _breasts_... 

From the moment when she first saw Sherlock’s visage etched in stone, she had been intrigued by her alabaster skin and untamable mop of curls. She was a princess- utterly untouchable and not to be sullied by the hands of a fallen soldier, a ‘female bodyguard’ to use Sherlock’s term.

Despite Sherlock’s positive reaction to John’s bold hand-kiss when they met, all feelings of kindness had surely fled in the wake of another chain binding Sherlock’s freedom.

But her voice, oh, her voice that was equal parts cutting, deep and soft, depending on her intonation. She was unquestionable and unapologetically regal, even sitting in her bath and bared to the world, to John. She could command any man, or woman, to bow at her feet.

John would happily go down on her knees before the princess; then she would kiss up her bony knees, thighs, and-

And when her voice said John’s name, even in her dismissive, haughty tone, it sent shivers down the injured soldier’s back. Somehow, her infatuation was more than physical. 

John was going to have to watch herself around the impetuous, young princess.

 

* * *

 

Gazing into the mirror, Sherlock had to admit that she looked regal.

Spinning slightly, she took in the blood-red gown curling around her feet with satisfaction. Molly had spread some kohl around her eyes and they were striking, and her heart was piled in a mass of curls around her head.

Sherlock held her favorite tiara that Mycroft had made to celebrate her day of birth when she was 16; it had silver skull decorations among the emeralds and diamonds that sparkled as brightly as they did five years ago. Sherlock recalled the joy she had felt when unwrapping the gift, genuinely smiling to her brother for the first time since their parents had passed years before.

“Happy Birthday, bee,” he had whispered into her curls when he gave her a brief hug.

Sherlock smiled at the tiara as the memory faded, and she raised her arms to place it on her head until it was nestled in place among her up-do.

She was ready.

Sherlock walked to her door of her suite and opened it, looking for John for a moment.

But the hallway was empty. How odd. Still, Sherlock closed the door and enjoyed the brief freedom of walking down the halls of the castle, unsupervised.

As Sherlock stalked into the ballroom, and her name was announced, she greedily took in the rush of deductions that entered her mind and ignored the smattering of applause.

_The ballroom is exactly 24 degrees Celsius, warmed due to the number of people in the room. The balding guard to her right has chronic back-pain from a war injury, the duke by the wall is having an affair, the woman dancing in the red ball-gown is new-money, and John is lurking in the shadows of one of the pillars, watching her closely._

Reminded of their experience in the bath, Sherlock felt heat rise to her face.

As she began to descend the grand staircase, her brother glided up to meet her and escort her down. He took note of her tiara, and a soft look passed over his face for a moment before it fell into calculating indifference again.

“Now Sherlock, there are four bachelor’s that I would like you to pay close attention to tonight. It is imperative that you dance with each of them, no matter how dull,” Mycroft whispered lowly while keeping a pleasant smile on his face as the guests watched the royal siblings descend the staircase with their usual grace.

“Why should I help you? I’m not the king, that would be you, remember?” Sherlock hissed, also keeping a passive expression on her face as they neared the bottom of the staircase.

Mycroft’s lips pressed together for a moment before he explained, “Because you are the princess of this nation, and that is what princesses do to provide for their nation- they look pretty and they have advantageous marriages to help their war-torn nations stay afloat.”

“Now Sherlock, can I introduce you to his royal highness Prince James Moriarty of the Southern kingdom.”

He was a short prince with eyes as black as pitch. He seemed… off. As his dark eyes scanned her body, she felt unnerved and clutched tighter to her brother’s arm.

“Well, I’ll leave you two. Sherlock, be polite to our guest,” he reminded lowly while Moriarty looked on with a small smile. Mycroft peeled Sherlock’s arm off of his with a confused look at Sherlock’s uncharacteristic clinginess. 

With that, Mycroft took off towards the ambassador for Nerum, an Eastern Kingdom, while Sherlock glared at his back. James coughed lightly to gain her attention. 

“So, would you like to dance?” Moriarty asked perfectly politely, and Sherlock steeled herself for the inevitably answer.

“Yes,” She murmured, taking his small, clutching hand into her own. She continued to feel uneasy in his presence, but he seemed harmless. Besides, his pocketsquare was bright yellow, his hair was highly styled, and all signs pointed towards women not being "his type."

Ugh, “eligible bachelors." More like desperate men who wanted the power of Sherlock on their arms.

Gay or not. 

She felt a pair of eyes watching her be led to the dance floor and, looking around, she saw John’s blue eyes peering at her across the room from her post. She repressed a shiver at the hungry look in John’s eyes and allowed herself to be positioned by the odd Prince in front of her for the first dance of many. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what it might be like to dance with John. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Gasping slightly, Sherlock rested her back against the cool marble pillar; she’d just escaped from the mild-mannered, stuttering Duke who was promising crops for Sherlock’s hand in marriage. He had spent the waltz discussing the cleverness of crop rotation. As much as Sherlock loved dancing, she was beginning to find the task tedious with such horrid partners. 

Sherlock was fantastically, unbelievably, mind-numbingly bored. The vapid men she was stuck with annoyed her within moments, she couldn't imagine a lifetime of conversations, balls, and shared chambers with any one of the men that were thrust upon her tonight. 

“You’re a beautiful dancer, your highness,” came a light voice from the darkness.

Spinning around, Sherlock came face-to-face with-

“John,” Sherlock sighed, rolling her eyes at her blonde bodyguard, “can’t I spend _two minutes_ without being monopolized by human beings.”

John stood with military precision- her back straightened and her uniform utterly perfect. Her long blonde hair was plaited and in a bun, the only perceived flaw in her appearance was the small blonde fly-aways that circled her head in the candlelight. Like other guards she wore trousers, but Sherlock could imagine John in a beautiful dress while fitting in perfectly with the stuffy elite. 

In a word, she was enchanting.

Sherlock felt her heart pick up as a flush crawled up from just above her chest to settle on her neck, matching her red ball gown. Something about this woman before her made her lose control of her transport, and while it was utterly distracting, it was also appealing. Dangerous.

Sherlock raised her changeable eyes again and watched her blonde companion for a moment, watching her lips move-

“-lock, Princess Sherlock?” John asked, attempting to get the princess’ attention.

“Yes, I hear you, what do you want?” Sherlock snapped in a low voice, wondering how much longer she could hide away from the veritable flock of men who were sent to woo her with her distracting guard. 

John looked at ease with Sherlock’s acerbic response, and rubbed the back of her neck bashfully, stepping closer to the princess until they both hid behind the large, marble pillar. It felt- intimate. 

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry you’re being paraded before all these men,” John murmured, as if the two women were sharing a secret. Sherlock leaned back against the pillar and felt the cool marble soothe her flushed skin. Oh- 

“It is not your place to notice such things,” Sherlock sniffed in her haughty manner, fully expecting John to huff and go away, but the woman just cocked her head.

“Well, it concerns you, so it is my place, actually,” John retorted, her chin lifting to meet Sherlock’s grey eyes in the dim light. Sherlock watched John’s eyes flicker down briefly before they resolutely met her eye line once again.

 _What was John looking at? Oh- my lips!_ The princess gasped quietly and lowered her eyes from the daring soldier in front of her. She was suddenly reminded that John had seen far more of her than just her lips, and Sherlock flushed at the reminder of their shared experience in the bath. 

“Do you want to leave the ball, your highness?” John asked, pulling Sherlock from her frantic thoughts and licking her lips as she stepped closer, pushing Sherlock flush with the pillar. The cool marble cooled the princess' skin and she sucked in a startled breath.

“I-“ many reasons to say no flew through Sherlock’s mind, but, for the first time, her bodily instincts took over and she found herself nodding before she had made the conscious choice to agree.

John nodded back with a twinkle in her blue eyes: “Then follow my lead.” With that, John stepped forward and scooped Sherlock into her arms, ignoring the princess’ startled yelp, and began to walk towards the side entrance of the ballroom.

“Let me down this instant, or I will have you punished for your insubordination!” Sherlock quietly hissed, but John simply brought the princess closer to her body and shushed her as if she was a child.

Sherlock ignored the shivers brought on by John’s easy handling of her. The female guard was so strong, she carried Sherlock as if she was no heavier than a kitten.

“Pretend to be ill,” John whispered as they approached the attending palace guard.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and she leaned against John’s neck. She smelled of citrus, rain and gunpowder. It was an intoxicating, complicated mixture that perfectly defined the woman herself. Sherlock's hand accidentally brushed against John's amply chest and she clenched her legs together at the sensation. 

“Her highness has been taken ill by all the excitement- I am taking her back to her chambers. Please inform his majesty.” With a solitary nod, John stepped away from the slightly startled guard to carry Sherlock back to her chambers.

Once they had turned the corner to an empty corridor, Sherlock began to wiggle in John’s arms: “let me down, you brute” she demanded, and John acquiesced.

John ignored the flutter in her chest at the feeling of Sherlock docile in her arms, even briefly. She was wading into dangerous territory, becoming familiar with the princess. John shook her head and raised her eyes to look at the princess.

“How are you feeling?” John asked as they walked side by side to her chambers.

As they walked, Sherlock’s ball gown danced around her long legs and created a waterfall effect in the corridors of the palace.

“I-“ Sherlock trailed off, still feeling vulnerable from being carried and “rescued” from the depths of her personal hell- socializing with bachelors. The silence stretched between the two women.

“You know, when I was a girl, my mother had grand dreams of me growing up and marrying to have a family of my own,” John supplied, apropos of nothing.

Sherlock did not even glance at her guard, but John seemed uncaring of this fact and continued: “She had always wanted a feminine daughter, since Harry was more masculine and utterly uninterested in gowns or propriety. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but my mother wanted ball gowns, and makeup, and a happily ever after like in the fairytales.” John huffed a facetious laugh.

“So I was raised with dolls, and tea parties, and whatever new fashion my father could afford as a banker-merchant. By the time I was 16, I was engaged to be married to the blacksmiths youngest son. All was right in my parent's world, but…”

John trailed off, becoming self-conscious all of a sudden and glancing at Sherlock. Sherlock was gazing back at her with curiosity in her eyes.

“But?” Sherlock began.

John sighed, “but it was the beginning of the war against the Valwald armies and I felt called to a life that was more than that. I had been secretly training since I was 15- I taught myself to hunt, fish, and wield a sword that I had stolen from my fiancé.” John laughed lowly, “I told my parents and my father screamed at me for hours, but my mother, she looked at me as if her dreams had been shattered and she didn't say a word. I left the next morning at dawn, and I haven’t seen or spoken to them in many years.”

John gulped in a deep breath, shivering slightly at the dark memories of her past.

“Why are you telling me this?” The princess asked none-to-gently. 

John turned to face the princess, grabbing her by the wrist to stop her gliding steps: “I am saying this because I know what it is to have expectations upon you that you do not want- and I am saying that sometimes you must follow your heart instead of your perceived duty.”

Sherlock glared down at the (warm, gentle, sure) hand clutching her wrist and John let her go after a moment.

“You know nothing” Sherlock intoned, looking down at herself and gesturing wildly, “I will not simply let down my dead parents if I do not marry. I am preventing our people from accessing aid that can help us win this war. You fought in the army and played your part, now it is my turn. I must play a beautiful little fool.”

It was the most candid Sherlock had ever been with John since their first meeting, and John absorbed the words for a moment.

“But princess, you are no fool, and you shouldn’t have to play one. Do you want to marry? I’ve never seen someone as miserable while dancing as you were tonight.”

Sherlock began to walk towards her chamber doors, now in sight. John’s footsteps followed behind her, but Sherlock ignored her  guard, a whirl of conflicting emotions in her chest.

“Sherlock, wait, please-“

Sherlock’s eyes glowed in anger at the familiarity expressed by her guard of one day. She spun around, her chest heaving in anger and frustration: “You’re coming dangerously close to impertinence, John. You will address me as is appropriate for our varied positions. I’ll thank you for your assistance tonight, but I do not need your commentary on my life or choices, and I especially do not need you to compare my life to yours as a lowly merchant’s daughter.”

John bore the verbal attack with her usual stoicism, but Sherlock saw her flinch when she belittled her station. Sherlock knew John prided herself on rising through the army, through the King’s guards, and she would hate to be reminded of her unpleasant familial past.

“Why do you push me away?” John asked before Sherlock could escape into her bedroom, “Do you know what people say about you? The ice princess, rarely seen and never heard from.”

Sherlock flinched slightly, and John softened slightly, walking closer to Sherlock until they stood a mere arms length apart, “you could make a real impact on your kingdom outside of marriage your highness, and yet you hide and push away anyone who would come to care for you.”

“Being alone protects me,” Sherlock said, her eyes narrowed upon her incessant guard. This was dangerous territory, Sherlock's feelings for her guard were far too strong already, and she needed to construct some distance. 

“No, friends protect people. Or at least guards do,” John corrected herself with a shake of her head, more fly-aways breaking free from her long braid.

“I don't have friends,” Sherlock sneered, pushing open the ornate door and slamming it on John’s concerned expression.

“And I never will,” Sherlock whispered to herself, tears building in her eyes as she sat down at her dressing table to wipe away her makeup and the few tears that had begun to fall. John was frustrating but her words echoed in Sherlock's head, causing confusion and overwhelming thoughts. Sherlock clutched her curls and willed her head to be quiet. 

Outside, John stared at the door for a moment before slumping down against it, head resting upon it and preparing for a long night of guarding the ice princess.

“You do look beautiful,” John whispered into the empty corridor, but the only answer was silence.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch the reference to "The Great Gatsby"? 
> 
> Comments/kudos feed my soul! Until next time <3

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments and kudos give me life! If there is anything you would like to see, I am always open to suggestions.   
> The game is on!


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